21 September 2012

Those words burst into life on my lips as I jolted out of a deep and melodic sleep. Where had that come from? Of course I wasn’t going to go anytime near in the future, I mean I was mid-thirties for Christ’s sake. I licked my lips and found them dry. My fingers clutched the duvet; I relaxed them, slowly, painfully. My legs. It was my legs. The numbness and pain that infused my lower limbs with tumble of white-hot needles of agony, sometimes so unbearable I couldn’t rest easy or at all. Old sweat caked my neck under my mane of wavy hair, tangled into an assortment of bed-knots as I tossed in my slumber. My face was slick with day-old make-up and kohl burned my eyes. I rolled over on my back.

So that’s it, isn’t it? The insistence in my mind to hurryhurryhurryhurry—be something—accomplish everything that I can, all the while a giant monolith’s heartbeat thrums at a slow plod, marking off my remaining days. Maybe months. Could I at least hope for years?

Madness. I couldn’t possibly know such things. No one could foretell their passing, not without a grim disposition from a fellow with three letters after his name and a comma. Yet the nagging feeling was there. It settled behind my solar plexus, tightening the strings that held my heart in place as my pulse reported my near state of panic eagerly.

What could I do with this new-found knowledge? This insight into the unseen? Would anyone even believe me? I sat up, clenching my hands into fists, feeling my nails dig into the comparatively soft skin of my palms. This would pass. It was all a ruse in my mind. A bit of unbalanced chemical or another. Perhaps too much caffeine and nicotine, rushed together to coagulate into a bit of post-midnight madness. It was lack of food, too much drink, and hours spent in the sun. The heat. It could well be a side-effect of the heat. Stifling and heaving with invisible drops of moisture like a living, panting animal.

Whatever it was, it didn’t frighten me as well as it should. My mind quickly snapped into action, ticking off a bucket list of desired accomplishments, and all looked well, save for my current project which lay halfway done, captured in text documents in various stages on my hard drive. My family. There was a problem. The set of caring individuals who always appeared before me once my internet time was cut short on holidays. Names of people I only recognized in Hallmark cards, sometimes with checks made out to me in desperation of giving me something, anything to be part of my life. To be seen. Did I see them? When was the last time I’d picked up the phone and given a call to my mother, whom incidentally lived within visiting distance enough to justify the fuel costs? Or my father, who supported me in my later teens, offering me his last dollar?

Oh, we had our Facebook chats. We exchanged funny emails with the subject line FW: FW: FW: FW: This really made me laugh! But as for physical contact?

How silent the house seemed in that instant of realization. Tears threatened at the corners of my eyes. I was a bad daughter. So many years, fighting to be seen by the world, and to be accepted by peers, and here I’d ended up ignoring those who meant the most.

I had to change. Immediately. Return calls. Send cards and back-listed gifts. Stop being such a spoiled, expectant bitch.

I rushed to my computer and checked my banking account online. The amount of digits there assured me I had the resources. I continued my trek to another website that sold my mother’s favorite perfume. A few clicks later, and she was scheduled to be astounded in a matter of days. A quick glance at the clock advised me that a phone call was out of the question at that hour, but I sent my father an email. One that hadn’t been forwarded from a stranger, or sent to ten others simultaneously.

Finally, I arranged for some time off of work. If I was to part ways with this world soon, what did it matter if I spent some of my accrued holiday time?

I would finish the project while on holiday, after dinner with my father. Although surprised, he did not decline an offered visit. He asked after my mother’s welfare and after we nattered on a bit about the state of things, I disclosed to him the stark feeling I was running low on time.

“I went through the same thing, about the time I was your age,” he explained after a hearty, good-natured laugh. “You youngins—always so obsessed with death and dying. Tempting the Devil to come for you early. Turning your face away from what’s so simple to learn.”

“What’s that, Dad?” I was confused. How could what seemed so real and ominous be wrong? I was fated to die early. I just knew it somehow.

“It’s easier to die than it is to live. It’s the whole getting there part that hurts the most.” He coughed, an ill-effect from decades of chain-smoked cigarettes. “You’re not going to be let off the hook that easy, dear daughter. But you can make the most of it.”

Those words stuck with me years afterward. I went on to charity work. I sold my expensive car and home, and eventually set up a chain of friend’s homes I could stay in for a limited time as I traveled the country, learning all I could and seeing all I could see.

The prognosis came the week before my forty-fourth birthday: brain tumor. Inoperable. The headaches had gotten to where I was left blind for periods at a time. My reaction was surprising to the doctor.

“Are you sure this time doc? You’re not just pulling my leg? Because I’ve tied all my loose ends, and I know the Devil likes to play his tricks.”

20 September 2012

Just got in a fresh box of Crooked Fang in the print for distribution and I'd like to extend an offer to sign and ship you a new copy of Crooked Fang. Price is $17 total for US/Canada, quotes given for other countries and yes, I will ship these babies anywhere.

12 September 2012

One of
the biggest problems encountered by anyone writing a book set during a specific
historical period is being accused of historical inaccuracies. Sci-fi and
fantasy can sidestep the problem by simply making up their own worlds, but if
you want to set your story at a certain point in time, then you need to make
sure you know what you're talking about. Research must be done to avoid
criticism, and anchor the story in both time and place - if someone is put off
your story by glaring historical problems, then they might just stop reading.
You can't really get away with watching a clutch of Westerns and then writing a
story, unless you actively want that 'pasteboard backdrop' feel to your
writing.

But
the problem with the Western is that it's not just a historical genre. Yes it's
true that you need to be aware of the facts - for example, you can't get away
with having the hero suddenly whip out a Tommy gun to shred his nemesis (the
Tommy gun wasn't invented until 1919). When I wrote The Guns of Retribution, I
researched Arizona's
history to find out when the railroad first came to the state and when most
Apaches were sent to reservations, all to make sure that the events in the book
happened at around the right time in history. I figured if anyone was going to
have problems with the book, I didn't want the problems to be with historical
inaccuracies.

Of
course, that's all well and good, but the Western is more than just 'the Old
West', as mad as that might sound. The Western is one of the most clearly
defined genres there is - it even comes complete with a set of themes. Say
'Western' to most people and they'll picture a saloon with swing doors, with
cowboys and lawmen shooting it out in the street while tumbleweeds blow around
their feet. Maybe they'll picture Clint Eastwood or John Wayne. People want
horses, stagecoaches and Native Americans. Whatever people imagine, they come
to the Western with a preconceived set of ideas and imagery, which is possibly
why many of the stories have taken on mythic status.

I
usually write horror, or 'weird' fiction, and there are definite challenges
involved in writing a Western compared with these other genres. If I'm writing
horror, or dark fantasy, then I can essentially make things up as I go along -
the world of the story operates according to my rules, and inaccuracies are
easier to explain due to generic conventions. With a Western, I have to bear in
mind both the history and the established conventions of the genre. You can't
even sidestep history and locate your story in a non-defined place, operating
under a set of clichéd conditions - geography, social considerations and
technological developments all affect your story, and you need to have them in
mind before you start.

It
sounds like I'm saying Westerns are difficult to write, which they're not - if
you're prepared to research the genre. The mechanics of a good story apply no
matter what genre you choose, and if you're happy to do some historical
research to provide a solid backdrop to your story, then the Western can be an
exciting, and extremely fun, genre in which to write. After all, how many other
genres boast bounty hunters, cowboys, law men, corrupt railroad tycoons and the
rich, varied cultural heritage of the Native Americans?

07 September 2012

Toby and I filed out to Amanda’s car one by one to transfer
the specialized foods she’d brought along for the trip. Our mutual friend
Amanda had insisted on inviting herself to the vacation but traveled separately
since she had an enormous amount of luggage. Airplanes gave her headaches,
trains took too long and she would never be caught dead on a Greyhound bus, so
she drove the distance in her fancy sports car. Amanda stayed in the rented rooms with
Isaac, whom she’d just met in the hotel bar that day. Given her social status
and that it’d happened before, the surprise guest wasn’t all that surprising.

I grunted under the hot July sun as we worked together to
shift colored plastic bags scented with heavy perfumes containing who knew what
into the back of his pickup. The matching Coach bags were heavy, laden with
more of the things she couldn’t live without, because when Amanda traveled, she
thought of everything. When we reached the large cooler, we discovered that the
trunk liner beneath it was standing in water. The drive from Laredo must’ve
taken at least six hours so we knew that anything that Amanda had brought to
supplement her highly-specialized diet was pretty much a goner. I started to
open the lid.

“Are you sure you want to do that? One of her snow crabs
might pinch your nose off.” Toby smirked from the other side of the trunk. “I’m
baking out here. I’m gonna go grab us a couple bottles of water.”

“You might want to call her down to look at her food. It’ll
be her choice whether we throw it away.”

Toby nodded and went off as planned. I stared at the lid of
the cooler. Some of the food might be good still. I couldn’t heft the container
alone so I flipped the slide-lock and opened it instead. Toby had cracked a
joke about snow crabs attacking me, but he’d been closer to the truth than he thought.
Nestled inside in neat packaging were all sorts of wild and exotic meats with a
few unidentifiable vegetables. As we’d assumed, the meat was defrosting. We
might’ve been been able to salvage a few choices but Amanda would have to consult
with her physician, dietician, and whomever else she contacted to decide
whether partially-thawed meats could kill her. I stared into that
box for maybe half a minute as I tried to make a decision on how to handle the
mistake. Amanda refused to eat standard meals anywhere. She’d find a way to
somehow hold us responsible in one of her classic bitch fits. But we hadn’t
loaded the car, and certainly not the travel cooler. One of the packages
shifted and I blinked. Maybe the sun was getting to me. When it shifted again,
I let out a sharp scream and dropped the lid shut.

Had I imagined the movement? Curiosity won over fear. My
father hadn’t raised me to be a flimsy-wristed pansy girl. I squared my
shoulders and opened the cooler again. No movement. I wrapped my fingers around
the suspicious package, wrapped in pale pink waxed paper. It jerked weakly
against my hand. I gaped. Oh my god. I pulled the bundle out of the cooler and
took it the grassy strip that divided the hotel and the concrete drive of the
loading area. The simple butcher’s tape gave up its prize: A whole, not-so-frozen-anymore
brown rabbit.

The eating habits of the rich were often disgusting, but
this particular entrée had been forced to lie on its belly and was packaged
similar to a child’s toy, with a cardboard collar around its body and included
cutting board. And somehow, someway, this animal was still alive.

I carefully tore away the cardboard from the wet, closely
cropped fur and untwisted the vinyl ties that bound its feet together. It gave
a sigh, punctuated with a whistle. How did this thing still live? When I rolled
it over, it stretched its front paws and twitched one long ear. I looked up to
see Toby walking back to me with Amanda and her gentleman companion in tow.

“Whatcha got there?” Toby called, and I waved him over. The
bunny hadn’t opened its eyes yet but its shaved sides rose and fell with rapid
breath. Toby halted at my feet wearing the same expression I imagined I’d been
wearing five minutes before. He eyed the discarded container, the reanimated
rabbit, and then me. “Was that in Amanda’s cooler?”

I nodded slowly and turned the little animal over. Its big
hind feet kicked in response but I held them together with one hand to show Toby
the neatly-stitched gash I’d found in the bunny’s gut. “You’ve dressed game
before. What do you think they might’ve taken out?”

He shook his head. “Could be anything. The liver,
intestines…if it was flash-frozen to be baked…” He frowned as I laid the rabbit
in his hands and rose to my feet.

I strode back over to Isaac standing with Amanda at the
trunk of her car as she fussed over the remains of her dietary choices and
bemoaned her digestive demise for the remainder of our getaway. She turned to
me as I approached and opened her mouth to speak but didn’t get a word out. I
punched her in the face.

All of sudden, I found myself in love with the world...

Eh, Whatever.

Carrie Clevenger enjoys
documentaries, non-fiction, Blue Moon, music, and coffee. Sometimes she
writes poetry and short stories that have bad endings. She's the elusive
sort and has a horrid fear of meeting people, but socialization isn't
exactly how good books are written. Carrie is the author of the Crooked
Fang series and has many more awful things planned.